The Dominatrix and the Angel
by WritingVagabond
Summary: AU Sherlock fiction set in post 'The Reichenbach Fall' London where instead of mousey Molly Hooper swooping in to help Sherlock fake his death, domineering Irene Adler returns to help Sherlock disband Moriarty's network. But are her motives honest, or is she only looking out for herself? **Rated M for possible smut and language in later chapters**
1. Chapter 1

**The Dominatrix and the Angel**

**Part 1: Chapter 1**

**Author's Note: Please note that this is my first fan fiction (that I've published) and I'm doing so to **improve **my creative writing. I'm aware that I'm disorganized with my writing, but am in the process of changing that. Updates are probably going to be erratic, but I get writer's block more often when trying to find a character's 'voice' that is already very developed, so bear with me a few extra days between posts. However, I'm always open to constructive criticism and would love some reviews to point me in the right direction. I also would like to acknowledge the shortness of this first chapter/prologue and assure any potentially off-put readers future chapters will be lengthier.**

****SPOILER ALERT - There may be some later chapters where events coincide with season 3.****

***This is an AU Sherlock fiction set in post TRF London where instead of mousey Molly Hooper swooping in to help Sherlock fake his death, domineering Irene Adler returns with a (metaphorical?) whip in hand to help Sherlock disband Moriarty's network. If you are a Sherlolly fan, this story may upset you in some chapters, but those who prefer Irene Adler - such as myself - will have a happy ending… maybe. I don't own anything, and Sherlock and all its affiliates are property of BBC. So, no more rambling, hope you enjoy!**

The sunny atmosphere of the cemetery seemed too calm while John Watson stood in front of a simple grave, hunched as he spoke to his best friend for the last time. "I was so alone... and I owe you so much." He paused, huffing, struggling to halt the tears from leaking out of his eyes, his words becoming rushed and choked with emotion. "Oh - just - please there's one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me… don't be dead. Just for me; _stop it. Stop this._" His head was bowed, but soon regained his composure and, like the soldier he always reminded others he was, walked stiffly away from the black marble gravestone. His eyes were once again as haunted as they were the day Sherlock Holmes had met him.

"Oh dear, that must have been difficult to watch, even for _you - _or perhaps _especially_ for you?"Sherlockflicked his gaze to the pale, striking woman speaking at his side. He admittedly wasn't the best when dealing with matters of sentiment, but when staring at his own grave listening as his closest friend begged for his resurrection, social etiquette commonly granted privacy. Then again, the Woman wasn't a strict observer of polite conduct; she'd proven this numerous times in their relatively brief encounters - Mrs. Hudson had certainly disapproved of her setting his text alerts to rude noises, frequently commenting on his supposed audacity. "There's work to be done. Moriarty may be dead, but his network will survive unless someone deconstructs it." Sherlock announced rather abruptly, ignoring her previous question. _Even in death Moriarty finds something to keep me occupied,_ he mused. "I assume you mean to do this yourself, but how exactly do you plan to take down an entire network of some of the world's greatest criminal minds acting alone? You may be exceptionally clever, but without John or your brother you'd have to be daft to try something like this." "Interesting. I thought you'd already made it clear you were offering your... services." Irene let out a low laugh, "Cocky for a corpse, aren't you, Mister Holmes? Well, go ahead, I'll bite," her mouth twisted into a smirk "_deduce_ me." "If you insist." "Oh, I'm adamant." He paused a few seconds, staring at her before settling on a slightly befuddled look he reserved for The Woman. "When you arrived in London you had a rather two rather large cases with you - perhaps they were filled with clothes given you're female and tend to travel more heavily packed, or perhaps, apt to your profession, you found it necessary to bring some personal supplies with you. Both are indicative of a long term holiday, yet still explainable with circumstance; then there are more subtle pointers. On your luggage handle the airline places a barcode with your airport of departure and destination - no return flight is listed. Also, there are no reasons other than sentiment or self-interested purpose to follow me here to my grave, where you just asked what my plan was as I'm currently believed to be dead, and therefore _alone_." Irene's lazy smile was unwavering as he expounded this at fifty miles per hour his eyes now focused as he was presented with a case. "I believe I just deduced something myself; you're going to agree to accept my help. Not that you have much of a choice in the matter, what with your lack of resources, but I thought I'd give you a chance to beg for it. It would make this a bit more exciting for me." Sherlock snorted and turned up his coat collar against the wind. "No. You, Ms. Adler are here for yourself, and taking into account what I've learned about you in past encounters, _only_ yourself. Sentiment meets its match with self preservation for you, a trait not common in today's _insipid_ brand of people."

Quickly making sure John wasn't lingering anywhere he could see him, Sherlock began the walk to his flat, planning to gather a few things before his exile and ignoring whatever the Woman was about to respond with. "Meet me at Baker's Street in an hour, and _don't_ be seen. Mrs. Hudson should be out - no one to see her take more of her 'herbal soothers' than prescribed. Microft will have figured out by then that he can spare Mummy the upset, so we'll be picked up around four." Irene followed him at a distance, getting in a cab when she reached the road, and pondered how in a mere 36 hours with this man, Sherlock was ordering _her_ around. Well, that wouldn't do, now would it?

**Well, there it is. Any thoughts or helpful criticism?**


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: After the heartless murder of several trees and the countless discarded bodies of pens, here's chapter 2; I'm probably going to update more frequently, but with short 2-3 page chapters. This one is a little bland, but I used it to develop my use of the characters' mannerisms.**

**I always love to hear feedback (positive and **politely** negative), so if you have a spare moment, please review. Thank you to those who already have!**

221B Baker's Street had changed imperceptibly since Irene had last visited. The books were slanted over each other at a slightly different angle, John's laptop was hidden in some random corner after Sherlock had "confiscated" it for the umpteenth time, and a microscope sat on the kitchen table with some new experiment ready to be observed in its slide. With a quiet chuckle – constantly aware that Mrs. Hudson wasn't far - she reminded her boisterous stomach that Sherlock didn't stock his fridge with anything but severed body parts.

"Find something amusing, Ms. Adler?" Irene nearly jumped out of her skin as the barbed voice resonated close behind her. "Not after a fright like that," she grumbled. After dropping everything for Sherlock when he'd called to inform her of his plan, she hadn't had much time for eating or sleeping since her plane ride to London over 36 hours ago. As a result, her reactions were slow and she was in the foul mood sleep deprivation always brought her, yet she managed not to show it when she turned to face the eldest Holmes brother. "Good afternoon, _Mr. Holmes_. What a _pleasure _to find you here - is that a new umbrella?" she purred at him as he leaned on his favorite accessory. "Yes, hello to you as well. To answer your question, this is not a new umbrella, merely a gift I'm using in my other's stead. More to the point, where is my _darling_ brother? I assumed he'd be with you when I was informed you'd boarded a plane from Venice to London shortly before his premature _'demise.' _I can fathom no other reason for a woman so keen on protection such as yourself to come back to a place where her reputation is so…""Unsavory?" another voice filled in the blank Mycroft had left.

Sherlock sauntered into the room with the stealth of a panther that'd just found its next sufferer. Mycroft crumpled his mouth into what only he could pass off as a smile before opening it with cunning intent. "..._Guileful_. Much like yours is, dear brother - or should I say was?" Irene felt like she'd disappeared as soon as Sherlock had entered the room - something she wasn't used to given her powerful presence. "I don't suppose there's protocol on what tense to use when masquerading as dead, do you Mycroft?" At his sibling's gibe, Mycroft dropped all pretenses of good humor and narrowed his eyes, sparing a glance at the rectangular outline in Sherlock's pocket. "Speaking of _tense_, I've already had to deal with consoling Mummy losing you to suicide, adding lung cancer or addiction to the growing list of transgressions is not going to fit into my agenda so facilely next time." "Oh yes, Mycroft quite the shame you had to act as if you had a pulse to your own grieving mother -" "Boys!" Irene hissed as their voices grew louder, rubbing her temples in agitation; the two let their glares linger a moment longer before focusing on her. "I'm well aware that you two could fill several file cabinets with your dysfunction, but you're both being such drama queens, you'll wake Mrs. Hudson. There aren't enough herbal soothers in London to keep her unaware of your racket. Now, I am tired, irritated, and have no care to try playing moderator to a pair of perpetual 5 year olds."

There was a tick of blessed silence before Mycroft felt the need to break it. "What exactly is your role in this, Ms. Adler?" The way he leaned on his umbrella made Irene want to snap it into pieces on his back… and not in a fun way. Sherlock must have noted the dangerous glint in her eyes, because he answered for her. "Her presence doesn't concern you Mycroft, and neither does my substance _use_ habit; there are more important matters to divert our attention to." "Oh?" He arched an eyebrow and began twirling his umbrella, smugly making eye contact with Irene as she inwardly reviewed the ways she could whip that ego into submission. "I didn't fake my death for laughs, _brother mine_. Moriarty was the tip of a malevolent iceberg that has the potential to sink even your carefully crafted government."

The spinning halted so abruptly Irene's foggy mind didn't notice until Mycroft was taking deliberate steps towards her, leaning into her personal space. "Your involvement suddenly makes much more sense. Given your track record with my brother, I'll allow you one warning: if you do anything to cause or let harm come to him during this fool's errand, I'll have every known terror cell supplied with your picture and location along with a considerable bounty on your head. Do I make myself clear, Ms. Adler?" "Crystal," she smiled widely, exposing her alabaster teeth in the predatory manner of a lioness. "Splendid."

Several hours of banter between the Holmes men passed before anything of substance was accomplished. One would antagonize the other with a jab at how they treated their mother or whose deduction skills were greater; Mycroft fondled his umbrella, and Sherlock's hands twitched like they were trying to play his absent violin. As Irene started to feel she knew far too much about their familial relations, it finally came to an abrupt end when Anthea knocked on the door, announcing he was due for a meeting. The three had decided she and Sherlock would assimilate themselves into a house in Cambridge for easy access to London - or to John in Sherlock's case. Mycroft would arrange lodging and necessities for both of them, pulling strings to pass off the expenses as fieldwork. In the meantime, she and Sherlock would be staying in a hotel on the outskirts of London.

"Do you think it wise to fall asleep in an armchair with Mrs. Hudson a floor away?" She twitched fully awake at the deep voice across from her, grumbling at him unintelligibly as he gathered a few random items from his former flat and putting them in a bag. She hardly noted its substantial size before a certain consulting detective dashed to the front door with the thrill of a new challenge etched on his face. "Oh, do wake up Ms. Adler – _the game is on!_"

**Next Update by 3/12/14 for anyone interested.**

**Happy Reading :)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: So, so sorry for the wait! I know I'd said I would update on the 12th, but I'd only kept a copy of this fic on Word, and my computer crashed, deleting all my files with it. Needless to say, I was far from pleased and busy trying to recover all my fictions in a timely manner. This update is shorter because of it, but I promise chapter 4 is twice as long to make up for those of you who may have been waiting. Anyway, I realized I made chapter 2 a bit bland, so here's a little action/character introduction if you've been craving some.**

**** I'm currently looking for a beta; if anyone is interested let me know :)**

**-o—**

The car ride out of London promised to be a long one once Mycroft insisted Anthea had to take them on an indirect route in case of any "unanticipated interference." Irene curled a lip at his embellished phrasing. The reason she despised and excelled at playing political games was one in the same: the amount flattery and ego stroking involved was astronomical. In her line of work, misbehaving came at a price, and the mastery of words often paid prices she couldn't have without them.

The car itself was cramped, but she eventually settled, compacted in the backseat with Sherlock and a mixture of their belongings. After all the ruckus at Baker's Street, he'd only brought enough of his possessions to fill a medium trunk, though she'd seen him eying his microscope lustfully on the way out. The car was finally starting to slow along a dark stretch of back between them and their destination, the countryside surrounding them blackened to the pitch of night.

Sherlock's phone light was glaring into her corneas as he typed with lethal concentration - most likely to his equally petulant brother. The night was unnervingly silent apart from the subtle purr of the Audi's engine. Irene thought she'd probably enjoy the quiet a bit more if her leg didn't fall asleep for the second time in the past half hour as she tried to settle into a more comfortable position - not that being cramped against a gorgeous curly haired detective hurt. "Stop fidgeting," he spoke without looking up from his mobile. "Have dinner with me." She curled one side of her mouth up as she said it, knowing he wouldn't answer - same as usual.

Irene began to lean forward to rummage her own mobile from her purse when the car lurched forward, her head hitting the luggage with a thump while the car fishtailed across the pavement. The glass of the windshield shattered into tiny diamonds when it came into contact with the guardrail. Sherlock grunted as she was thrown into his side with the combined weight of the trunks. When the spinning finally stopped, they all sat disoriented for a brief moment before the divider slid down. _"Damn it."_ Anthea cursed from the driver's seat, quickly pulling a pistol concealed by the bulk of her pea coat. The twin beams of headlights filtered through the broken front of the car, blinding Irene to its driver.

Anthea kept her eyes fixed ahead as she readied her weapon with the ease of a seasoned professional. She got out of the ruined car and Sherlock wasn't a step behind, so she scooted across the seat with them. "Are either of you injured?" she asked with a calm urgency Irene instantly attributed to years of military train - "Irene!" She blinked, realizing Sherlock was staring.

"Oh, I'm -" performing a brief survey of her body she opened her mouth to reply, but was cut off by the deep baritone beside her. "Concussion. Mild, but you were already tired. If you feel the urge to sleep more than normal, make sure to fight it." "I assure you, I've survived worse, Sherlock," she cupped the side of her head gingerly, wiping a trickle of blood from what felt like a shallow cut from a sharp cornered piece of luggage. Sherlock spared her a final glare through his narrowed lashes before turning his attention to their assailants.

Irene forced her mind to remain alert, but It was starting to become increasingly difficult for her to focus on the navy blue SUV they'd had the altercation with and the two men that stepped out. A designer shoe touched the ground and though his body was concealed by the door, her breath caught quietly in her throat. A fog of dread slithered into the dominatrix's mind with abhorrent certainty; she knew those shoes.

**-o-**

Sherlock flicked his gaze from the Woman to the offending car's high beams, but not before he caught the hint of fearful recognition darken her blue eyes and the barely audible catch in her breathing. He hadn't spoken to her much about her time on the run from the numerous criminal organizations with a price on her head, but since he'd last seen her nearly beheaded by terrorists, something had changed in her demeanor.

When a man in his homeless network with past connections to a rival terror cell contacted him about The Woman being held for execution by the Karachi, he'd wasted no time arranging a private flight, assuming Mycroft wouldn't look at it too closely while he was dealing with another root canal.

From there it was only a matter of finding out where they'd taken her - terrorists were so boringly predictable. Yet, even after being tortured at the terrorists' will, she had that inextinguishable fire burning just below the surface - a flame that had diminished until it left a gaping hole in her otherwise flawless façade.

At some point, the once dauntless dominatrix had a submissive streak beaten into her, and for inexplicable reasons he felt a flash of emotion rear its ugly head before he shoved it into the darkest corner of his mind palace for later evaluation.

A car door slammed as three men stepped out of the backseat and Sherlock felt his thought process fray like a piece of snipped thread. He saw Anthea's face and hands tighten in synchronization, her fingers just as nimble with a gun as they were with the keys of a cell phone.

The first two men were merely hired guards - Neanderthals given a modernized club and pointed in the direction of their puppeteer's enemies. The third man, however, was much more intriguing. He was in his late 30's to early 40's, pale, and had a classically sculpted face; dark grey eyes were perfectly offset by his dark brown hair and an aristocratic nose sat above a lazily amused grin. Dressed in a designer white button down and slacks with the unique shoes to match, the man was full of secrets waiting to be unveiled, and though drugs were an acceptable substitute, nothing got Sherlock's mind buzzing like the prospect of a new challenger. _Well groomed, confident despite the gun pointed at his chest, Sherlock mused. In business, obviously not on the right side of the law since he just hit us with a car to make a point. And that point was…?_

"Ah, Mr. Holmes! So nice to finally put a face to the name. I heard so much about you from a friend of mine, you may know him - Jim Moriarty? You see he was supposed to close a deal with me before you sidetracked him. A very important deal that my little enterprise was relying on. Tell me, what's stopping me from having my buddy-" he said, slapping one of the stoic men's cheeks mockingly " -put three holes straight through your friends' hearts and that precious brain of yours?"

**-o-**

**Okay, I _may_ start portraying Anthea as a badass - after all, John was attracted to her so she must be a raging sociopath. I know, she wasn't supposed to be like that (evil laughter.)**

**As always, thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and following. I appreciate the support :)**


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